


Strands in a Braid

by shiphitsthefan



Series: Necessities [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Bunker Fluff, Castiel in the Bunker, Castiel's Birthday, Dom Castiel, Domestic Fluff, Existential Angst, Gen, Human Castiel, Innuendo, International Talk Like A Pirate Day, Language Kink, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Nerdiness, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pride, Roleplay, Rope Bondage, Sick Dean, Sub Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:52:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6922939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small moments shared between a Dom, his sub, and their family; D/s relationships aren't always about sex, after all.</p><p>***</p><p>This is a collection of ficlets that are set in the <i><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/253903">Necessities</a></i> 'verse, originally published on my <a href="http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>. Though you don't need to have read the other fics in this series, you might be interested in doing so if you enjoy Destiel BDSM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drink Up, Me Hearty

**Author's Note:**

> These are unbeta'd and not necessarily in order. I wanted to have these all in one place for organization's sake. It isn't very efficient to have bits and pieces from a series on separate sites.
> 
> This collection will primarily be fluff, but there may be smut from time to time. Hence the lack of rating.
> 
> Please do not repost/copy/duplicate this work to other sites. That's called theft.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas celebrate Talk Like a Pirate Day. Originally posted [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/129429134684/drink-up-me-hearty).

_“Arrr!”_

Cas startles from sleep, heart pounding, chest heaving for breath.  Goosebumps immediately prickle his arms where he’s jolted out of his cocoon of blankets, exposing himself to the perpetual chill of the bunker.  He looks at the door, expecting some kind of threat, but instead sees Dean with a bandana wrapped around his head and an eyepatch.

“Did you injure yourself?” Cas asks, squinting at him.

“Nay, we be gentlemen o’ fortune today.”  He waggles his eyebrows and adds, “So show a leg, raise your anchor, and stand by to be boarded.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be a squiffy, me beauty,” says Dean lasciviously as he walks into the room and closes the door behind him.  "I intend to thoroughly swab your deck.“

If Cas squints any harder his eyes will shut.  "Now I _really_ don’t understand.”

“You’ve been alive for approximately a jillion years, and you don’t know how to babble like a buccaneer?” asks an incredulous Dean.  "You’re a lily-livered landlubber instead of a savvy lagger?“

"What does lag have to do with this?  Can Charlie help?”

“No, I mean that–oh son of a biscuit eater.”  Dean sighs heavily and slumps, dropping all of his jolly posture.  "It’s Talk Like a Pirate Day, Cas.“

"Why?” asks Cas as Dean plops down on the bed beside him.

“I don’t know, because it’s fun?”

“How is the celebration of those who terrorize and rob vessels at sea ‘fun’?”

Dean rolls his eyes and lets himself fall back into his pillow.  "Dude, why can’t you just go with it?  I have been waiting for a whole month to be the Jack Sparrow to your Will Turner and then you go and scuttle the saucy ship.“

"Oh,” Cas says quietly.  "Is this like the time you wanted to smuggle my lightsaber in your Millennium Falcon?“

"Yes, this is _exactly_ like that,” replies an exasperated Dean.

“I see.”

“Look, just don’t worry about–”

“No, Dean,” Cas says, moving to straddle him.  "I am always amenable to…“  He stops, wrinkling his nose as he struggles with the parlance.  "Hoisting your colors?”

Dean’s frown slowly turns into a smirk.  "Is that a hornpipe in your pajamas, Cap'n, or are you just happy to see me?“

"I’d be happier if you’d stop talking, cabin boy.”

“Aye aye,” Dean replies, weaving his fingers into Cas’ hair as he leans over him.  "Plunder away.“


	2. Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast is needlessly complicated when you're caffeinating a family of hunters. Originally posted [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/133307818364/yes).

“Dean,” Cas asks him one morning as he pours coffee into his favorite mug, “do you want milk or sugar in your coffee?”

“Yes,” answers Dean, smiling, but not looking up from his newspaper.

Cas sighs.  He’s been human for a while now, but he doesn’t understand the need for prevarication, or using imprecise language, or generally being unfathomable, intolerable, and impossible.

“Why does he do that?” he asks the rest of the breakfast table.  “What does he mean?”

Sam snickers.  “He does it because he’s a jerk.”

“I’m right here,” Dean reminds him.

“Observation stands.”

“How do I know what he wants?” Cas continues, trying to get the forum back on track.  “Yes to milk?  Yes to sugar?”

“Could be yes to both,” says Charlie before taking a bite out of one of Dean’s banana nut muffins.

“Then why couldn’t he say that?”

Charlie shrugs.  “It’s implied.”

“Or it could be an obtuse way of verifying that yes, he does want one of those things,” Kevin says after swallowing his mouthful of cornflakes.  “Or it could be propositional calculus.”

“Oh, like, does ‘either a or b’ preclude ‘both a or b’?” asks Charlie.

“I mean, that’s kind of what you already said,” Sam reminds her as he tosses his banana peel in the trash can behind Dean.  “It’s implied.”

“Three points,” Dean says automatically.

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees with Sam as she picks a chunk off of her muffin, “but if you look at it programming-wise, it could be ‘either’ just as often as it is ‘neither’.  They could cancel each other out.”

Dean groans.  “Nerds.  I’m surrounded by a bunch of fucking nerds.”

“I still have no idea what you want in your coffee, Dean,” Cas says, bewildered.

“Straight, no chaser,” Dean tells him with a smirk.

“Then why did you say yes?”

“Because you’re cute when you’re frustrated.”

“See?” says Sam.  “Jerk.”

Dean asks Cas, “Did it work?”

Cas squints and scowls and says, “Yes.”


	3. Resolved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't make resolutions, but he does like Cas' suggestion. Originally posted [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/136437136584/resolved).

“Do angels have anything like New Year’s?” Dean asks Cas as he pops the top off of a cold bottle of El Sol. The glass scrapes slightly against the roof’s edge, the cap plummeting to the ground, its impact inaudible from such a height.

“No,” says Cas, accepting the offered beer. He doesn’t take a sip, instead watching the water vapor swirl and rise out of the bottle. “We never celebrated any arbitrary delineation of the passage of time.”

Dean nods. “Right. Ageless. Stupid question.”

Cas doesn’t bother to reassure Dean, to lie and tell him the question wasn’t dumb. It’s one of the few things he’s retained of his angelic self, the unerring ability to be blunt, even with silence. He can still lie, of course–the time before his brief foray into misguided godhood taught him that much–because being truthful isn’t the same as never being false. Dichotomy is the subtle spice in the brew of life, after all.

“We were made to worship, Dean,” he says instead. “We had one purpose. We served, glorified, praised. The only time measured was the distance between devotions.”

Dean takes a long sip of his beer. “That sounds boring as hell.”

“I never knew boredom until I knew humanity.”

“Glad to know we’re so entertaining.”

Cas chuckles. “I mean I never knew the malaise that idle time could bring until I fell.” He clinks the neck of his bottle against Dean’s and adds, “You’re never boring.”

Dean smirks. “Glad to hear it.”

They sit in silence for a while, drinking beer and watching clouds pass over the moon. Cas pulls his coat more snugly around himself, and Dean tucks the blanket around their knees tighter. The beer is cold, but the alcohol warms Cas’ belly, though not nearly as much as the human heater next to him. He smiles at that thought and burrows further into Dean’s side.

“Is that why you like…Um.” Dean finishes off his most recent beer and sets the bottle down, freeing his hands to fidget nervously with the edge of the blanket. “Y’know. Being dominant.”

Cas grins all the wider and turns his face into Dean’s neck. “Not really,” he explains. “I just like seeing you on your knees.”

“Oh.” Cas is sure Dean is blushing, but it’s impossible to tell out here in the cold when their faces are both flushed.

“Dean?”

“Mmhmm.”

“What time is it?”

Dean wrinkles his brow as he shifts and maneuvers his hand into his pocket to retrieve his phone. “Eleven…” He blinks at the bright light of the screen. “Uh, one minute to midnight.”

“I understand that it is traditional to kiss at midnight.”

“I mean, to be fair,” says Dean, “I’ve done all kindsa things to celebrate the new year.”

“Is that your typical resolution?” Cas asks. “To find new and interesting ways to commemorate the date?”

“Nah,” Dean tells him, setting his phone on the roof beside him. “I don’t make resolutions.”

Cas considers this briefly before deciding, “I have one.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“To find new and interesting things to do to you.”

Dean laughs. “I can get behind that.”

“You mean under,” Cas reminds him.

“Not always!”

“But mostly.”

Dean rolls his eyes and concedes with a shrug. “Can’t be top at everything all the time.”

“Dean?” asks Cas impatiently, rubbing his mittened hands together.

“Cas?”

“Is it midnight yet?”

Dean checks. “Looks like it to me.”

“Then you can kiss me now,” Cas tells him, maneuvering Dean’s face toward his with his friction-warmed hands. Dean makes to mirror the position, but Cas _tsks_ and shakes his head. “Behind your back, please.”

He huffs out an exaggerated sigh before complying. “Does that meet your satisfaction, _sir?”_

Cas shakes Dean’s head playfully side to side. “You’re a horrible brat.”

“But you love me,” Dean reminds him.

“Yes,” Cas says as he brings their lips together, nearly touching. “That I do.”


	4. The Diacritic of Zorro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin never asked to be the sexy times translator. Originally posted [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/144778581364/the-diacritic-of-zorro).

Kevin puts up with entirely too much shit from the Winchester clan.

First, there was the whole abandoning him for a year business, which no, he isn’t bitter over anymore. Not at all. Why would he be? It isn’t like he had to live in an abandoned church and live off the land like the bastard son of some unholy union between Ted Kaczynski and Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Kevin sneers at his notebook and the tablet he’s attempting to translate.

Which speaking of, there’s all of this deciphering arcane rocks to save the world nonsense. Kevin had no interest in an archaeology major whatsoever, and yet, here he sits, day after day, trying to make all the squiggly, shaky lines form a recognizable pattern. It’s boring, and gives him the worst possible migraines, but it’s also basically the only thing he’s good at anymore.

Well, he’s a decent-ish nurse for Sam, too, when his body shuts down and he relapses from the trials. And yeah, Kevin might have gotten some perverse satisfaction out of Sam’s misery at first, a sinister kind of schadenfreude, but that hadn’t lasted long. Now, he’s more or less accepted his role as both prophet and caretaker.

“Kevin?” Cas asks him from the doorway, interrupting his thoughts. “I have another question for you.”

“What language _now?”_ asks Kevin. He glances up and immediately groans.

“Spanish, please,” Cas says, fiddling with a mask on his face.

No, Kevin honestly has only one real complaint these days, and it’s name is DeanCas.

He sweeps his work to the left side of the table, then motions for Cas to sit across from him. Kevin leans back in his chair, legs sprawled. “You know,” he begins, “not to kinkshame or whatever, but this is getting ridiculous.”

“I merely wish to be authentic.”

Kevin rolls his eyes. “You’re too white-washed to be authentic, Cas, but sure. Why not.”

Cas picks at the edge of his cape and doesn’t meet Kevin’s eyes.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, it’s just…” Kevin sighs heavily. “Look, I know Charlie’s shown you how to use the internet, because you always leave YouTube open with whatever baby animal video you’ve found most recently–”

“They’re very calming, Kevin.”

“–unless you’ve been looking up shibari tutorials, which the NSA must have an absolute _field day_ with your search history.”

Cas stares levelly at Kevin. “My interests are very diverse.”

“No shit.”

“The fact remains, however,” Cas continues, folding his hands on top of the table, “that your linguistic knowledge is much more reliable than the internet.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Kevis scratches the back of his head and resigns himself to his fate. “Okay, what brand of awful are you going to be saying today, Zorrastiel?”

Cas squints at Kevin, but doesn’t otherwise comment on the name. Instead, he pulls a list out of his pocket, swipes one of Kevin’s many pens, and begins.

“I want you,” he says.

Kevin scoffs. “That’s easy. Te deseo.”

After scratching it down phonetically, mouthing it to himself as he does so, Cas moves to the next phrase. “Take your clothes off.”

“Uh, quítate la ropa. I think. And before you ask,” says Kevin, interrupting Cas as he opens his mouth, “if you want him to take _your_ clothes off, it’s quíta _me_  instead.”

Cas nods, scribbling that down, as well. “I want to fuck you.”

Kevin grimaces. “Is te deseo not enough for you?”

“Well the first bit is when I’ve successfully rescued him and the–”

“No, no, never mind,” says Kevin, recoiling. “I don’t need details. Quiero cogerte.” He swallows before asking, “Anything else?”

“Good boy.”

Kevin _thumps_ his forehead on the table. “It’s untranslatable in the context you’re using it. That phrase makes no sense in Spanish. Just say bien or something.”

“Oh,” says Cas, “that is very interesting.”

“Are we done here?” Kevin asks hopefully.

“Yes, I believe so. I think I can work with this, in addition to the lines I have memorized from the entirety of the Zorro franchise.”

“Great,” says Kevin. “Fantastic. Go have your sexo morboso and leave me out of it.”

“Have our what?” Cas asks.

“Please go away.”


	5. Pride and Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our gang of five celebrates Pride, both in the bunker and out. Originally posted [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/146526749879/dean-had-helped-them-all-get-ready-with-a-smile-on).
> 
> Mentions of collars, leashes, and gags, in case those aren't your things.

Dean had helped them all get ready with a smile on his face. He carefully painted a double-bladed battle axe on both of Charlie’s shoulders and hot glued her sparkly rainbow wings to the back of her sports bra. She’d flounced around in her homemade rainbow tulle tutu that Cas had sewn for her, pirouetting in bright pink Converse and thigh-high rainbow knit socks. Charlie was so excited that they’d had to practically force her to sit down for breakfast, but Dean could hardly blame her; she was too adorable.

Sam hadn’t really known what to wear, so Dean suggested that he dye his hair. It took entirely too long to do, separating individual chunks of hair to color in black and white and different shades of purple. He put on a plain gray tee, and some old faded jeans. Dean told him he looked ridiculous, because that’s what big brothers were supposed to do. Cas had insisted that Sam allow him to paint a heart on his cheek-–”It’s traditional and festive, Sam,” he’d said-–and Sam relented. Charlie had attacked him with grey eyeshadow and purple mascara while he had to sit still. Kevin couldn’t do more than stare.

Kevin’s outfit had been the most complicated. Charlie had driven him to the nearest mall with a Hot Topical and they’d found some odd dress that looked like it was made up of black scales. It was tight and short and Dean wasn’t entirely sure what it had to do with Pride, but he wasn’t about to ask and ruin Kevin’s fun. Zipping Kevin into it had been an ordeal–the fabric at the zipper broke at the seam in spite of how well the dress had fit him in the store. Dean had wound up sewing Kevin into it while Charlie spiked up his hair and Cas painted tiny flags on his cheeks. Sam, meanwhile, had taken _his_ turn to stare, so Dean made fun of him again.

Now that the trio have said their goodbyes and left the bunker for the Pride parade in Wichita, Dean lets the facade drop. He isn’t exactly ready to flaunt his bisexuality in public, let alone his kinks, but even if he was, it wouldn’t matter. The angels are still on the hunt for Cas, and he’s not going anywhere to celebrate his relationship without his partner.

Cas, however, is nothing if not perceptive.

“You could have gone with them, you know,” Cas tells him as they clean up the mess left over from the costuming session. He’s futilely trying to use a hand broom to sweep up the glitter from Charlie’s wings; it had sprinkled off behind her like a trail of bread crumbs throughout the war room.

Dean shakes his head while he looks for the lid to the hair gel. “I didn’t want to go without you,” he says quietly. He can feel Cas staring at him from across the room, so Dean looks up to meet his eyes. “Don’t think I’d feel real comfortable in a costume, anyway.”

“What would you have worn?”

Dean opens his mouth to answer, thinks better of it, and closes it again. He shrugs and says, “I dunno,” then turns his back to Cas and looks on the control panel for the lid.

But Cas’ glare is palpable. “Dean.”

He can’t tell him. It’s so dumb; he’s embarrassed that it had even occurred to him while he was doing Sam’s hair last night.

Cas sighs as Dean’s silence persists. “Dean,” he repeats more forcefully. When there’s still no response, Cas makes his way over, setting down his broom and dustpan on the map as he goes. He grips the back of Dean’s neck, and Dean tenses, but doesn’t pull away. “Tell me,” Cas says, even and steady.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Dean begins after a moment of hesitation. “Just…I’m not ready for it in public. That’s all.”

Cas releases his hold to turn Dean around to face him, but Dean can’t meet his gaze, keeps his eyes on the floor. “What are you not ready f–-”

Dean can almost hear the gears click into place as Castiel gets it.

“You want to be seen as mine, don’t you?”

There’s nothing Dean can do but nod. His vocal cords are frozen. It’s not that he thinks Cas would  _dislike_ appearing in front of strangers in the fullness of their relationship, not just as Dean’s partner but as his Dom. Dean doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s scared by how much he might enjoy it himself, and that’s not a part of him he’s ready to examine.

“Is it about things that we don’t yet have, or things that we haven’t done, or is it fear of the unknown?” Castiel asks. He still has that eerie quality of seeming to read Dean’s mind, even if he no longer has the power to actually do so.

Dean swallows and says, “All of the above,” then adds, “Sir,” for good measure.

Castiel reaches up and loosely puts his hands around Dean’s throat, barely touching. “Would you wear a collar, boy? Is that something you’d like?”

He wants to just nod and pretend he’s lost his voice, but he knows better. Castiel wants his words, wants him to admit his desire out loud. “Yes, sir,” Dean whispers.

“A leash, so I can lead you around?”

Dean shudders. “Yes, sir.”

Castiel smiles slyly and removes his hands to grab Dean’s arms and turn him back around again. He places his palm over Dean’s mouth. “Gagged?”

He can’t do more than moan in answer as his cock stirs to life in his pajama pants.

“Should I bind your arms behind you?” Castiel asks, using his free hand to pull Dean’s wrist up to the small of his back. “Is that what you want, Dean? To walk around looking owned, your cock straining in your panties beneath your jeans as we mingle for hours, no hope of relief in sight? Demonstrably mine?”

Dean nods his head furiously, because of course he does. He’d be stupid not to want that. Castiel’s claimed his soul already; Dean has belonged to him for years, in one way or another. This physical aspect, Dean’s submission, is not new, not really. It’s only a new expression of what was already absolute.

“We will someday, Dean,” says Cas, releasing Dean’s mouth and wrist to wind his arms around his waist instead. “I promise, we will. Because I want that, too. I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”

Dean licks his lips and grins. “I think we’d scandalize the family.”

Cas laughs quietly, more of an amused huff than anything. “After all they’ve likely heard us do? No,” he says, “no. I’m reasonably sure they would just drive separately and wander elsewhere.”

“You think?” Dean asks, pulling Cas’ hand up to kiss the back of it, the knuckles, the palm.

“Mmhmm. Besides,” says Cas, pressing a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck, “it’s Pride; they’d just be proud of you for letting go and being who you are.” A pause, and then, “I’d be proud of you, too.”

They spend an hour in the shower that afternoon trying to scrub the glitter off of themselves, but it’s a small price to pay for an accepted confession and reciprocated desire.


	6. Out Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's not about to let something as dumb as a cold keep him from having kinky sex. Originally posted [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/148421716244/out-cold).

Dean had come home from a solo hunt the night before feeling more run down than usual. He wasn’t especially surprised–the nest had been bigger than he thought, and he’d manage to tip off the lookout. Granted, the vamp had been alerted by Dean’s sudden, uncontrollable cough, but that was just shit luck. A tickle in his throat. No big deal.

Now that he’s awake, Cas curled around him like a possessive cat, Dean can’t stop shivering. Considering the sheer number of blankets Cas insists on sleeping under, that _is_ surprising. It’s also unacceptable. Dean can’t be sick. He’s been away from the bunker for nearly a month, and now he and Cas have the place to themselves for the next week.

Like _hell_ is he going to miss an entire week of sex and kinky fun times.

Dean coughs hard enough to wake the dead, which is close to enough to wake up Cas. Instead, there’s a low rumble that resembles sound muffled in the back of Dean’s neck. He coughs again, and Cas unconsciously tightens his hold around Dean, which doesn’t help matters, at all.

After a few more minutes of abject misery and trying to pull the blankets over his head, Dean succeeds in pulling them off of Cas. He wakes up immediately.

“You stole the blankets,” Cas says blearily.

“’M cold.”

“You’re never cold in bed.” Cas lets go of Dean and reaches up to feel his forehead. “You’re warm.”

“I know.”

“You’re sick.”

Dean groans. “I _know.”_

Cas runs his fingers through Dean’s hair blindly. Occasionally, a stray pinky finger will land near Dean’s eye, but he could care less. The stroking is comforting, regardless of any accidental pokes.

“Was gonna be all yours for a week,” says Dean with a raspy voice.

“There will be other weeks,” Cas tells him. He ceases petting Dean’s hair and unwinds himself so he can lean against the wall. “Here, sit up a little.”

Dean does, lets Cas scoot his legs beneath him. He lowers himself back down between the V of Cas’ legs, his head elevated on Cas’ thigh. “There’s still stuff we c--” Dean coughs again, closes his eyes as Cas pulls the blankets back over them. “Still stuff we can do.”

Cas’ thigh shakes a bit with his quiet laugh. “And what would you propose we do?”

“Dunno,” says Dean, shrugging as much as he can given the position. “Could go back to playing with my hair, yeah?”

“We could,” Cas concedes, “but we _need_ to get to the kitchen and get you some juice, make you some soup, see if we can find the cold medicine…”

“Alright, alright, fine.” Dean coughs, but attempts to do so as petulantly as possible. He’s not sure whether or not a cough _can_ be made petulant, but Dean’s determined.

“You’re even a brat when you’re sick,” says Cas. He continues more gently, “We might not lose the whole week to illness, but we don’t need to play when you aren’t healthy.”

“Maybe…” Dean licks his chapped lips.

“Yes?”

“Maybe you could still tie my arms?” He opens his eyes and adjusts so he can look up at Cas. “I’ve been looking forward to this. To you.”

Cas shakes his head. “Dean–-”

“Please,” says Dean. “Please, Sir, tie my arms.”

He strokes his fingers down Dean’s face. “So eager to give up control, aren’t you?”

Dean sighs, content and comfortable in spite of the soreness of his throat and the full-body chills. “Always.”

“Hold them out.” Dean does, moving with Cas as he leans over to open the bedside table drawer. He rummages around, finally finding the rope he’s looking for, and holds it out for Dean to see.

He laughs until he coughs, which doesn’t take long. “My calm down rope?” he asks, smiling at the length of soft, pink rope Cas is holding. “I’m not exactly anxious and dropping.”

Castiel clears his throat. “Nevertheless, I thought it prudent. As much as I like you bound, you _are_ sick and I would prefer to keep you comfortable.” He straightens the rope and runs it through his fists. “Furthermore,” he continues, “I am the one in charge here. You have made a request, which I am granting, but it will be on my terms.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, still grinning.

“Call it out.”

And Dean does-–four wraps around his forearms; tails crossed; six wraps between his forearms; cinch; surgeon’s knot; tails through one side to the front; loop; tails through the other side, through the loop, and _oh,_ Dean feels much better now.

“Thank you, sir.” His voice is low and quiet, not because he’s sick, but because he’s relaxed. Castiel’s looking down at him like he’s precious, like he’s treasured, like he’s proud. Dean is as bound by the rope as he is that gaze.

Castiel gently tugs on the tail ends of the rope. “Come on,” he says. “Let me lead my good boy down to breakfast.”


	7. Many Happy Returns of the Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Free Family tries to throw Cas a birthday party; it goes as well as expected. Originally posted [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/150687458579/many-happy-returns-of-the-yesterday).

Charlie looks over her purchases one last time before heading into the bunker. Balloons? Check. Streamers? Check. Annoying candle that doesn’t go out when you blow it? Check. Too many different types of frosting and sprinkles? Double check. Hello Kitty paper plates and cups and napkins? Check, check, and check.

 _Cas is going to love this!_ Charlie thinks to herself. _This party is gonna be shiny!_

She throws a reusable shopping bag over each shoulder, closes the car door shut with her foot, and heads inside, smile as bright as the Little Miss Sunshine on her shirt. When Charlie gets down to the kitchen, Sam and Kevin are, inevitably, fighting like an old married couple. The only difference now is that Sam is wearing a plaid apron, Kevin’s wearing Charlie’s TARDIS house shoes, and they’re both covered in flour.

_Or it’s going to be complete felgercarb._

“You were going to major in physics!” yells Sam. “How do you not know how to measure?”

“Gee, I’m sorry,” Kevin says, “I didn’t wake up mysteriously transformed into Alton Brown this morning.”

“Alton Brown’s more of a chem nerd, actually,” Charlie tells them, setting her bags down on the table.

“Well maybe I should go look up a spell for it in the library,” Sam snaps, ignoring her. “It’d be nice to have _someone_ who knew what they were doing around here for a change!”

“Oh my god, did I just ‘well, actually’?” Charlie shudders, a roll of party streamers in each hand. “Ugh. I’m going to have to surrender my woman card now.”

“Well maybe if _someone_ wasn’t addicted to Pinterest, we wouldn’t be in this mess right now!” says Kevin through clenched teeth.

“Think fast!” and that’s all the warning Charlie gives before chucking a can of frosting at each of them. Better to hear them bemoaning the bruises on their arms than bickering over baking. “Alright, everybody grab a spatula and let’s ice ourselves a--” She stops and looks around. “A cake. Guys, where is the cake? I’ve been gone since they started watching _The Two Towers_.”

Sam and Kevin both point at the other and yell, “It’s his fault!”

“How does it take three hours to _not_ bake a cake?” asks Charlie. “We’re pushed for time as it is! We have like thirty minutes max before the movie’s over, less than that if Dean refuses to watch the credits!"

“Maybe we could substitute something,” Sam suggests.

Kevin asks, “Like what, last night’s leftover meatloaf?”

“Toast?”

“Sam, you did _not_ just suggest we make birthday toast.”

Charlie sighs. “Why don’t we decorate until we think of something we can use that doesn’t come in a loaf, okay?”

 

* * *

 

Dean is glad he left Cas down the hallway, because the kitchen isn’t so much prepared for a birthday as it is for Armageddon. Seeing as how they aren’t due for an apocalypse anytime soon--Dean wraps his knuckles on the wooden door frame, just in case--there’s literally no excuse for the disaster zone he’s walked into.

“What the fuck did you all do?” he asks, kicking his way through the carpet of balloons on the floor. One of his slippers lives up to its name and slips off his foot in the process.

“Dean!” Charlie’s smile is crooked and manic. “We can explain.”

“Why are the chairs covered in crinkly paper?”

“I bought streamers, but forgot to get any tape.”

He squints at the sink. “The faucet, though, why--why did you decorate the faucet?”

Charlie shrugs as she pulls the plastic shrink wrap from around the paper cups. “Because it deserves to be festive? Equal-opportunity decorating?”

“Pretty sure that’s not Grumpy Cat,” says Dean, pulling a paper cup from the stack in Charlie’s hands. “This is--this is all _girl_ stuff!”

“Okay, one,” Charlie starts, grabbing the cup back from Dean, “way to be heteronormative and gender conformist.”

“I think I understood maybe a third of that sentence.”

“And _two,_ this is all Walmart had with cats on it.” She pulls the pack of napkins out of the bag. “You want something specific, order it on Amazon next time.”

Dean sighs. “At least there’s cake.”

Sam and Kevin pause, red-faced--not because they’re embarrassed, but because they’ve been blowing up balloons for twenty minutes straight. They glance at each other, then over at Charlie, and then at Dean.

“Please,” says Dean, putting a hand over his eyes, “for the love of God, tell me you didn’t forget cake.”

“It’s not really that they forgot it,” Charlie explains. “They’re just incompetent.”

“I blame Pinterest,” says Kevin.

Sam frowns. “I thought you blamed _me.”_

“I was trying to be nice, you enormous clumsy moose.”

“That would certainly be a change.” Sam makes a face at him.

“I wish you two would fuck already,” mumbles Dean. “So what are we doing instead of cake?”

Kevin snorts. “Genius over here suggested toast.”

Cas looks around the kitchen door frame. “I enjoy toast,” he says. His hair is mussed and sticking up in several different directions. Dean finally smiles, remembering how it got so disheveled in the first place. They need to have debates about dwarf tossing more often.

Still, he can’t help but be irritated at the Three Musketeers behind him. “Toast isn’t birthday food, Cas.”

“Oh. I see.” He steps into the kitchen, looks around, and fiddles with the hem of his oversized t-shirt. “Whose birthday is it?”

Dean blinks. “It’s--it’s _yours.”_

Cas shakes his head slowly. “No, mine was yesterday.” He squints. “Or maybe the day before. I’m honestly not sure.”

A loud gasp startles both of them. “Oh gosh,” says Charlie, “your present! It’s still at my house!”

“It’s alright, Charlie,” Cas tells her. “I can’t really think of anything I particularly need.”

“I can’t believe you forgot his birthday,” Kevin says. He stomps on a balloon; it pops and startles Cas.

“Hey!” Sam kicks another balloon out from under Kevin’s foot. “Other people paid good money for those.” Kevin mutters something in Latin before shuffling through the balloons and out of the kitchen. “We’ll be in the family room,” says Sam, rolling his eyes as he follows Kevin out.

Dean pulls Cas over and kisses his temple. “I’m sorry we fucked this up for you.”

Closing his eyes, Cas grins and leans into Dean’s kiss, encouraging him to continue. “You can make it up to me later.”

“And that’s my cue to go,” and Charlie dashes out of the kitchen.

Dean ignores her. “Just what did you have in mind?”

Castiel _hmms_ and strokes a finger under Dean’s chin. “I do rather enjoy denying you,” he says slyly. “But for now, let’s go finish our marathon.”

“We could go start a different one,” Dean says lasciviously.

“I want to see how the story ends.”

“There’s only, like, one scene with Ents in it.”

Cas pouts. “What about hobbits?”

“Pippin has a…” Dean licks his lips, considering. “A series of very bad days.”

“Then I will require chocolate.”

Dean kisses him again; Cas’ lips are soft from the lip balm Dean brought him. It makes him taste a bit minty, and Dean wants to kiss it off. “I think,” he says, giving Cas one more quick peck, “that can be arranged.”

Ten minutes later, everyone has a spoon and a personal can of frosting, and they’re all squeezed together on the couch. Sam and Kevin--who is practically sitting in Sam’s lap, much to Dean’s amusement--are fighting over whether or not to put the subtitles on. Charlie’s dumping sprinkles into her can of frosting, throwing in a vote for watching it with the director’s commentary, instead. Cas is alternating bites of his frosting with Dean’s, licking the spoon in the worst way possible, considering the whole family’s together.

Later, Dean promises Cas that they’ll forget his birthday next year, too.


	8. Scrapwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without divine purpose, Cas attempts to hold onto the past and redefine himself. Originally posted [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/151319099319/scrapwork).

The shirts are old and threadbare. The jacket, beyond mending. The apron, though clean, is stained beyond recognition. The jeans are so full of holes that they could easily be offered up for beatification, but that would require parting with them, and Cas can’t do that. **  
**

He has a jar devoted entirely to found buttons. There’s a recipe card box where he’s filed bits of flannel shirts away. He can’t get rid of them; after all, the jar and the box serve as bookends for his poetry collection, Cas tells himself. They have a weight; a purpose; a duty.

Of course, there is also a cardboard shoebox full of socks widowed by the washer and dryer. Cas has a neatly folded stack of torn panties that he’s rescued from the trash can in the laundry room, deposited lovingly with the other clothes in the cedar chest Charlie found for him at an estate sale. Ripped band shirts; out-of-date ties; dress pants that went on one case too many--all have a new home here, tucked lovingly into a handmade house at the foot of the bed.

The only common thread--though, not to worry, Cas has plenty of those saved, too, secreted away with the buttons--to the collection is that everything, once, was Dean’s. And it doesn’t matter how many times Kevin tells him that this is something only serial killers or ladies with fourteen cats do. Whether it’s creepy or borderline-hoarding doesn’t concern Cas, because when Dean’s away, hunting either alone or with Sam, this is all he has.

Cas gets numerous phone calls and texts, to be sure. Dean’s even taken to dropping an odd postcard or two into the mail, which Charlie happily delivers from her mailbox to Cas’ waiting hands. Each is slipped into it’s own individual sleeve in a dollar bin photo album Dean brought him four hunts ago. Cas flips through it often, amazed that such a mess of a man has such beautiful handwriting.

But there’s nothing beyond words that connects them when they’re apart. Cas has no soul inexplicably tethered to his Grace to wonder at, no existential, metaphysical claim to soothe his darker thoughts. There are only memories of sleepy fumbling in bed; of secret gropes in the kitchen; of interrupted sex in the shower turned to giggles; of the sight of Dean surrendered, making Cas feel mighty once more.

All Cas has are the discards, the cast-offs, the pieces of broken puzzles that might, one day, prove useful again.

These things once defined Dean; now, they define himself.


	9. Lick This Beater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean introduces Cas to the pleasure of eating cookie dough. Originally posted [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/151902741304/lick-this-beater).

Dean wobbles his way from the bedroom and into the kitchen in his boxers. While he's happy to have a six-week hunting vacation, Dean wishes it had been under better circumstances. Being thrown across the room by a giant booger beast--

"Ogre," Kevin told him with that special blend of bored and annoyed that he pulled off so well. "It's an ogre."

"Then it should look less like snot, okay?"

Charlie never even looked up from cleaning her shotgun. "I thought it looked more like a boomer? You know, from  _ Left 4 Dead?" _

"There was an uncanny resemblance, yeah."

Kevin groaned. "Not you, too, Sam. You're supposed to be the voice of reason."

\--but anyway, aforementioned enormous mucus monster had tossed him into a brick wall leg first. Right leg, of course, because Dean really needed that bone broken for a second time. One quick trip to a no-questions-asked indigent clinic later, and Dean was in a cast and laid up.

Unfortunately, that's the only kind of laid he's getting is in bed. Also unfortunately, being in bed does not mean he's getting his brains fucked out. It's just further confirmation that the universe hates Dean, sticking him at home with Cas in an empty bunker for an extended period of time with a Dom who refuses to scene with a sub in a cast.

After waking up alone and in pain, Dean had decided to go looking for Cas. It wasn’t much of a search, considering all he’d had to do was open the bedroom door and catch a whiff of burned coffee to know that Cas was, unfortunately, in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas yells.

“I’m still down the hall,” Dean shouts back. “How’d you know?”

“Your crutches.”

“What about them?”

“They’re loud.”

“Yeah? Well so--” Dean clears his throat and stops yelling as he squeezes his way into the kitchen. “--so are you.” He finally gets both crutches through the door jambs. Tossing them in the general direction of the corner, Dean hops over on one foot to where Cas is frowning at the coffee pot’s filter basket. Cas immediately tilts his cheek up toward Dean, waiting for his kiss.

It’s so sickeningly domestic. Dean loves it almost as much as he loves Cas.

“How’d you offend the kitchen now, sweetheart?” he asks, pecking Cas on the cheek.

“I don’t understand what the purpose of having directions on the side of the coffee canister is,” Cas says, frowning. “It clearly says one tablespoon per six ounces of water, but a standard mug size is between eight and ten ounces. The coffee is packaged with a scoop, but nowhere on the label does it say how big the scoop is.”

It's never going to stop being funny to Dean how Cas can pick up the most off-the-wall concepts so quickly, then trip over the mechanics of the mundane. Dean pokes the coffee maker; a cloud of steam puffs out the top, and the plastic shell groans in complaint. “Did you at least use a filter this time?”

“Yes, but it overflowed.”

“How--you know what,” begins Dean, “don’t worry about it. I’ll make the coffee, and you do...whatever else you’ve been doing in here.”

Cas blindly hands Dean the basket and dumps the carafe full of brown sludge into the garbage can. “I was making cookies,” he tells him.

“Hell yeah! You’re good at those.” The filter basket gets discarded on the counter in favor of checking the oven.

“I haven’t put them in yet,” Cas says. “I was busy trying to determine how I had ruined the coffee. You can put the dough on the pan, though, if you want. I need more practice with the coffee--”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Just point me in the direction of the beaters and leftover batter.”

Cas is eerily silent, but Dean has priorities. Licking the batter off of a beater is an essential, sacred part of the sweets-making process, one that Dean refuses to miss out on. He finally locates the mixing bowl in the sink, along with the two beaters from the hand mixer. Dean pulls them both out and immediately starts to eat the batter off of it, presenting the other to Cas.

“Dean,” Cas says levelly, “that’s dangerous.” When Dean shrugs, trying to get his tongue in between the bars to get a chocolate chip, he continues, “The Food and Drug Administration is very clear regarding the consumption of raw eggs.”

“The FDA can kiss my ass,” Dean replies. “This is delicious.”

“I fail to see how salmonella can be delicious. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, those infected with it experience severe diarrhea.” Cas looks at Dean intensely, grabbing Dean’s wrist before he can put the beater back in his mouth. “Human waste expulsion is already a needlessly complicated, unsanitary process.” He leans in, a wild, terrified look in his eyes. “Dean. Diarrhea is a  _ horrifying _ affliction.”

Dean sighs, a beater in each hand. “Look, Cas, this is part of the ritual, okay? You have to lick the beater. It’s, like, the eleventh commandment.”

“It isn’t,” says Cas, squinting. “I was there.”

“We live in a bunker full of inane and cryptic and sometimes helpful information! If one of us manages to come down with explosive poop--” and Cas visibly shudders, “--then we can fix it.” With his poutiest look, Dean goes for broke and says, “Please, Sir. Just try it.”

Castiel growls. “That’s not fair, Dean.”

“So punish me later,” says Dean, grinning. “One taste, Cas. That’s all I’m asking for here.”

Closing his eyes, Cas seems to resign himself to fate and the fickle nature of raw egg. He leans in slowly, nose wrinkled, tongue barely sticking out in the beater’s general direction, then rears back, shaking his head. “I can’t do it. I really, really can’t.”

Suddenly, Dean has an idea. He turns around, pretending to put the beaters back in the bowl in the sink. Instead, he licks off as much of the outside of the second beater as he can manage. Dean moves it around in his mouth like a piece of gum before swallowing.

He comes up behind Cas, who is staring at the defenseless coffee maker in confusion once more. One final hop on his good foot, and Dean grabs Cas’ by the shoulder and spins him around, crowding him against the counter between his arms. Before Cas can say anything, Dean kisses him, slipping his tongue between Cas’ shocked lips, coaxing him into returning it. If the noises Cas is making are any indication, he has no complaints about cookie dough-flavored kisses.

They finally break apart, Cas’ arms around Dean’s waist, Dean’s hands framing Cas’ face. “So?” Dean asks. “What do you think?

Cas licks his lips. “I think I’m beginning to understand the appeal.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


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